History Repeats
by Angelus1
Summary: Set almost immediately after the Riley episode. Yeah, Buffy swore never again, but history has a funny way of repeating itself. Switches POV every other chapter from Buffy to Spike.
1. Sorrow the First

Title: History Repeats (1/?: Sorrow the First)  
  
Author: Angelus  
  
E-mail: angelus1317@hotmail.com (Please put "History Repeats" on the subject line.)  
  
Subject: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
  
Category: BSR. A.  
  
Rating: NC-17 (eventually).  
  
Summary: Absence makes the heart grow fonder...  
  
Spoilers: Dunno the name - it's the one where Riley comes back, though.  
  
Archive: Anywhere, just ask me first.  
  
Disclaimer: If I owned these guys, well...let's just say that Spike wouldn't have any time to be starring in fanfics. Buffy, Spike and company are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and UPN.  
  
Author's notes: I dunno, I was just kinda thinking and it occurred to me that I wanted to do a story completely in present tense. So - here it is.  
  
Dedication: To Katie. What would I do without you? Sappo forever.  
  
~*~  
  
He misses her. His crypt is uncomfortably dark and quiet, he's noticed, without her there to brighten it up.  
  
She used to make it shine like the sun - minus the flammable side effects. She used to send her tinkling, silver-bell laugh reverberating against the drab stone walls. She used to make it smell like her lipgloss and perfume. She used to make him eager to come home.  
  
He dreads it now. When he enters, he smells nothing but alcohol, cigarette smoke, and stale blood. The dripping water keeps him up at night. And when he lays in his bed on his back and stares up, he sees nothing but the dark, dank stone ceiling of the underground cave rather than her smiling face.  
  
He still sees that face occasionally; at the Bronze, when he passes by her house and just *happens* to peer through her window, or when she stops by for information. He can't help but notice that she doesn't smile as much anymore.  
  
She used to smile; when she was with him. He'd attack her from behind and push her turtleneck aside to press his cold lips on the purplish hickey already marring the skin of her warm neck and he couldn't wipe that goofy grin off of her face for the rest of the evening.  
  
He misses that smile. Little does she know that one quick upward twitch of her lips drives him wild with desire. When she's with him, they can both forget that he's a vampire and she's the Slayer. It makes things simpler...for a little while.  
  
But they haven't been together for quite some time now. He remembers, of course, with perfect accuracy, the last time that she was here with him. It was when Soldier Boy walked in on them. He remembers how proud he was that day; he had gotten a shag and a one-up on Captain Cardboard, how could life get any better than this? Then everything had fallen apart, both literally and figuratively. Buffy had found out that he was the Doctor, and she and Riley had proceeded to blow up his crypt.  
  
He wonders how he managed to pull the wool over her eyes in the first place. Had she not gotten curious when he refused to let her go downstairs? Originally, the plan had been to prove to her that he was more than just her lap dog; that he still had some Big Bad still left in him, somewhere just below the surface. But the more oblivious to it she had become, the more of a chore it had become, and there was no fight that started with screaming and ended with a hard, violent shag like he had hoped for.  
  
Truth be told, he's more disgusted with himself than he is proud. He supposes he could be disgusted with her gullibility, but he loves her too much to attribute any sort of fault to her. So he schemed up a way to get some easy money. What has it gotten him? A blown-up crypt, a good cry, and a hurt Slayer. Brilliant, he congratulates himself. Simply bloody brilliant.  
  
Last week at the church was a revelation of sorts. He told her how much he misses her smile and she told him that she still wants him. He's been giddy since the moment he bade her goodbye and dragged Little Miss Morbid out the door. He only wishes that she were here to share in his happiness.  
  
He feels a bit guilty at times - being the cause of her vulnerability. He's not stupid - he knows that he's her weak spot. But sometimes he wonders if he's taking advantage of it; of her. He wonders, maybe, if he should back off a bit and let her sort this out all by herself.  
  
But then, all he has to do is close his eyes and picture her back in his bed where she belongs. This is right; its good for both of them; it's what they need. Now the only thing he had to do is wait for her to realize that.   
  
He flops down in a beat-up and now scorched leather armchair - one of the few pieces of furniture to survive the explosion. He hasn't even bothered to clean anything up, save for shoving some debris off of the bed. He knows it's only a matter of time. After all - she likes the rubble, right?  
  
~*~  
  
END 


	2. Sorrow the Second

History Repeats (2/?: Sorrow the Second)  
Angelus   
See first chapter for disclaimer, etc.  
  
~*~  
  
It's cold here in her bed without him. She wonders vaguely if he'd climb up the tree and slip through her window to be with her, then pushes the thought out of her mind when she remembers that she's not supposed to want him in here with her. But it's so cold...  
  
She considers it ironic, really, that she would seek warmth from the cool body of a vampire; that a killer could make her feel so safe; that a man without a soul could make her feel so loved; that someone dead can make her feel so alive.   
  
When she looks into his eyes, she can almost forget that he's a vampire. Yes, he's the classic bad boy that she swore she'd never fall for again, but he has a way of making her feel like the only thing on this planet that matters. Riley used to do that. He makes her stomach flutter and her legs go weak at the knees when he walks in the room. Angel used to have that effect on her.  
  
If she looks at it objectively, he's everything she ever wanted in both Riley and Angel; he's loyal without getting suck jobs from vamps in his spare time, but he is a vampire himself. There's no danger of him losing his soul in the midst of consummating the passion and sexual tension that underlies their every encounter, but that's only because he never had one to begin with. She supposes it will always come back to that.  
  
There's no denying that she still wants him; she has to fight it every night when her patrol leads her past or through the graveyard. If she stops, she imagines she can almost feel him calling out to her. She nearly gave in last week; she stood for close to fifteen minutes outside his crypt before finally making herself turn away. It had been hard to do, however; knowing that he was just on the other side of the thin wooden door, waiting.  
  
She's taken the crosses and garlic down from her bedroom windows, but still he doesn't come. A daily war wages in her head as to whether she actually wants him to or not. But oh how nice it would be, she thinks, if he just crawled through the window right now and laid down beside her...  
  
But still he doesn't.  
  
So she waits.  
  
~*~  
  
End chapter 2. 


	3. Memories and Metaphors the First

History Repeats (3/?: Memories and Metaphors the First)  
Angelus   
See first chapter for disclaimer, etc.  
  
~*~  
  
When she's not here, at least he has the cigatrettes and booze to keep him company. He tries not to dwell on how many nights he's spent like this; a glass tumbler in one hand, the television remote in the other, a cigarette balanced precariously against his full lower lip. "Passions" is on, he reminds himself nightly, for the pure fact that it's the one thing around here he can count on not to change.  
  
To the casual observer, he supposes he appears dead. A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of hismouth when he remembers that he is, in fact, dead. He lays there on his debris-covered bed, motionless, a study in contrasts; his black jeans and open black button-down shirt paired with his platinum hair and the ivory skin of his face, chest, and bare feet, all against the gaudy, pink silk sheets of the bed that he never cared enough about to change. The only sign that he's living - or unliving - is the sporadic movements of his hand as he takes long, slow, cleansing drags off of his cigarette.  
  
Passions ends, as do the five shows after it, yet still he sits in front of the television. Cigarette after cigarette burns down to a tiny stub, and the pile next to his bed grows just as quickly as the brandy bottle empties.   
  
As he pulls out the lighter once more, his addled brain recognizes just how drunk he really is. Getting drunk is hard for him to do, considering the incredibly high tolerance he's built up for it over the years, but it does happen, at times like now when he just doesn't care enough to pay attention and limit his intake. Consequently, he ends up doing things like turning his lighter over and over in his hands for hours on end, or until the effects wear off, which takes considerably longer than it does an actual human due to the fact that he no longer has a working liver, seeing as how he's been dead for quite some time now.  
  
It's a nice lighter; smooth and shiny, with the inscription on the bottom that reads:  
  
"To my William. With love, Catherine."  
  
He remembers the day Druscilla gave him this lighter. It had been his birthday, or so she said. Truth be told, he didn't remember his human birthday, but once every few years Dru would decide to celebrate on a random day. This particular year, they had still been with Darla and Angelus. The four of them had gone to the ballet at Dru's insistence. Obviously, Peaches and the Bitch Queen had been in a good mood if they had allowed themselves to be persuaded to attend, for they didn't share his trait of catering to her every whim.  
  
She had looked beautiful that night. At the ballet she had become quiet and well-behaved, hopping back and forth from his lap to Peaches'. The evening was so magical that even that hadn't bothered him. On the way home, she had danced through the moonlit streets, spinning 'round and 'round is dizzying circles and singing to the stars. She had held out her hand and he had taken it and they had shared a waltz in the middle of the darkened streets of Greece.  
  
When they had returned home, Darla and Angelus had retired to their bedroom without comment, leaving himself and Dru to their own devices. They had made love; slowly, passionately. Later that night, she had awoken, dressed, and gone out. And, being as protective as he was, he had followed her. It hadn't been anything special; she had simply been hungry. But after her handsome young victim had fallen to the ground beneath her, she had bent down, picked up and object off the ground, and headed for home. As usual, he had beaten her there, and had lain in bed as if he hadn't even noticed that she was gone when she had crawled back in beside him and held up her prize, dangling it in front of his face: that very lighter.  
  
He had chuckled then, and kissed her, thinking of what a coincidence it had been that of all people, Dru had managed to unknowingly find someone named William to rob and kill. They had made love again, and as he was right on the edge, she had informed him in grave seriousness that she had a secret to tell him.  
  
"What, luv?" he had asked distractedly. She had smiled coyly, her lips just grazing his ear, and has whispered:  
  
"My name's not Catherine."  
  
Just that moment, he had come, laughing and shouting her name and thinking that surely, it just couldn't get any better than this.  
  
He still misses her. There are some things that Buffy will never be able to understand: his penchance for masochism; his need for blood; and, above all, his love for her.  
  
So still he sits, thinking, turning that lighter over and over in his hands, careful not to accidentally open it and burn himself like last time. And suddenly it occurs to him - maybe it's the alcohol - how much like Buffy this lighter really is.  
  
On the outside, it's flawless, as is she. It's cold and hard as she would like to appear, yet inexplicably, irresistibly alluring. Yes, she tries to appear like the concerns of the world can't touch her, but he knows the truth. He's seen her laugh, seen her cry, seen her in such a rage that she's taken out a concrete tombstone with one fatal kick.  
  
Yes, underneath the metal, what she tries so desperately to hide, lies passion; passion that burns white-hot; passion too hot to compare to even the flame inside his lighter. Whether in rage or in love, she radiates searing passion. It was that passion that attracted him to her ever since their first meeting. Even then, he was captivated by her incredible beauty and savage spirit just begging to be tamed.  
  
She's beautiful when she's angry. But she's even more beautiful when she smiles. And he can't help but notice that she does it more often that none when she's around him.  
  
He may lead a tragic, meaningless, unimportant life, but if he can manage to make the Slayer - *his* Slayer, his Buffy, his love - laugh the way she does when she's with him, he thinks that perhaps his unlife is worth living after all. 


	4. Memories and Metaphors the Second

History Repeats (4/?: Memories and Metaphors the Second)  
Angelus   
See first chapter for disclaimer, etc.  
  
~*~  
  
She can't remember the last time she did housecleaning. With all the chaos in her life she rarely gets the chance, but her shift's not 'till late tonight, Dawn's at school, Xander's at the construction site, Anya's at the Magic Box and forbids distractions while she works, lest it lead to a missed sale and lost money, all leaving her here alone. Again. She needs something to do; some sort of busywork to keep her mind off of sexy, peroxided British vampires that she shouldn't be fantasizing about.  
  
The garage took the longest. Xander had pulled the car she still did not know how to drive out into the driveway and she has scrubbed the concrete walls and floor as if her life depended on it. And it did, in a way; the more she's thinking about housework, the less she's thinking about the affair that could potentially destroy the life she's worked so hard to build for herself, even if only by default.  
  
The kitchen is clean, as is the attic, the basement, the living room, and the bathroom. Dawn and Willow's rooms she'll let them clean themselves. Now she only has her own bedroom left to do.  
  
At first it's routine; take the bed linens to the laundry room, vacuum the floor, straighten the shelves. Then she goes into the drawers and she gets herself into trouble.   
  
She takes a deep, cleansing breath before opening the drawer on the bottom left-hand side of her dresser. She pulls it all the way out, and carries it back to her bed before she actually begins looking through it.  
  
When she was in fifth grade, she started building her "boy box". Even at the time it had sounded like a stupid idea, but Kim did it, and Kim was popular, so therefore she longed to be like Kim. It had started simple: notes she and her crush, Robert, had passed back and forth; a bracelet from her eighth-grade boyfriend, Chris; the paper flower Pike had given her that she'd salvaged from the wreckage that was at one time the Hemery High School Gymnasium. And then came those things that had happened all too recently.  
  
She still has the bouquet of roses he sent her on Valentine's day, note in his angled, Spartan handwriting and all. Just looking at the dried arrangement sends shivers down her spine. Below are happier memories: the cross he gave her when they first ran into one another; the diary that she thought he had read, chronicling their meeting; the corsage he bought her for prom; and, of course, the Claddagh ring.  
  
Next come the post-graduation items: letters with his return address in Los Angeles; a necklace that he had sent her for this past Christmas that she still couldn't bring herself to wear; one of his business cards; a pilfered menu from the restaurant they'd eaten at all four times she'd been there; and the deep purple rose he had had delivered to her house on her twenty-first birthday.  
  
That's where the memories of Angel stop. She has very few of Riley; the book she dropped on his head, a daisy he'd tucked behind her ear on their picnic, and a few Initiative memorabilia. Only a Slayer, she realizes, would have a boy box that included a mini taser gun. She still has a poster taken from the wall of the Bronze of Bif Naked, the band that was playing the night she made the mistake of sleeping with Parker, to remind her what happens when she ignores her better judgement.  
  
She hasn't added to the box until just recently, and the items she's been adding are greatly disturbing: Spike's handcuffs; the flowers he left on her front porch in memory of her mother; a candle and one of his shirts taken from his crypt when she was invisible; the "wedding ring" he'd given her under Willow's spell.  
  
She sifts through the items once more, her gaze resting on the small silver Claddagh. The ring itself is gorgeous. She's always liked the design, even before Angel explained its symbolism to her. Which way would she turn it now, she muses thoughtfully, if she were to put it on her finger? What was Spike to her - friend? Boyfriend? Lover? Enemy?  
  
How did you identify a boyfriend as opposed to a friend or a lover? Or an enemy, even, in her case? He's everything this ring represents; he loves her, he's loyal, and he's a friend.   
  
If she really thinks about it, he's her best friend, in fact. She's able to tell him things that Xander and Willow and Giles would back at. But he remains calm, unflappable, and supportive. No matter what happens in this world, she always has Spike to fall back on.  
  
He's loyal almost to a fault, really. Sometimes she doesn't think she can go another minute without his sarcastic wit to right whatever's wrong in the world. But there are those times where she feels like he's suffocating her. Then she yells at him, and he blends back into the scenery until she has to seek him out.  
  
Is this love? She wonders. She has no doubt of the fact that he loves her; there's no doubt about it. But what does she feel? Does she want the man - vampire - that knows exactly when to be around and when to back off; the one who makes her whole body tingle in anticipation with one feather-light touch; the one who doesn't kiss her, but worships her with his mouth?  
  
Does she want the Billy Idol hairdo, the clothing that was bought in the eighties and probably hasn't been washed since? The taste and smell of blood and cigarettes and alcohol and peroxide and musty leather lingering all around him? The uncountable complications that come with being a Slayer and falling in love with a vampire?  
  
Her mind made up, she slips the ring on her finger, tip of the heart pointing towards her own. 


End file.
